


No Surrender

by rockmusicplays



Series: Avengers 3.0 [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 13:38:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockmusicplays/pseuds/rockmusicplays
Summary: Bucky and Steve escape Siberia with the last person Bucky ever thought would be willing to help him.





	No Surrender

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know, it's taken me forever to post another installment. Sorry, guys.
> 
> FYI - This series ignores everything post-Civil War with the exception of a couple of kickass ladies I couldn't bring myself to leave out.
> 
> Title borrowed from Bruce Springsteen.

He hadn't felt pain like this since before the war. It had been late, and dark, and he'd lost his footing on the icy cement steps that led to the fourth-floor walk-up he shared with Steve. He'd thrown his hands out to keep himself from hitting the steps face first, breaking the wrist he no longer had. A broken bone seemed incredibly minor looking back. He'd been through so much worse since then, but nothing had felt right since the first time he woke up strapped to Zola's table.

In a way, Bucky was grateful for the agony he was in right now. It made him feel human. Like he was more man than machine for the first time in seventy years. He grinned to himself, leaning heavily against Steve's side. They'd finally made it outside, and even though dusk was falling, the world was blindingly white.

They stopped moving. Steve adjusted his grip on Bucky's waist, pulling him in tighter. He seemed anxious all of a sudden, and it helped Bucky focus on their surroundings. There was a second, smaller jet parked a few dozen feet away from the one they'd stolen to get to Siberia. And considering how their luck had been going, that was probably not a good sign.

"Please, just let us go," Steve said, voice cracking. "Please. He was never in Vienna. He didn't… I need to get him out of here. He needs help."

T'Challa hopped down from the cockpit of his jet, heading straight towards them. Bucky pulled himself up as straight as he could, readying himself to shove Steve to the ground when the Wakandan got within striking distance. No one else was going to die because of him. Especially not Steve.

"You have nothing to fear from me," said T'Challa, stopping just close enough to make Bucky nervous. "I have been following Stark since he left the hospital. I heard everything Zemo had to say about what he did to my father," he paused, eyeing the bloody metal stump where Bucky's prosthetic used to be. "I owe you an apology, but that can wait until you've gotten medical attention. Both of you."

"We don't have a lot of time" Steve replied. "Tony's suit is out of commission, but he's not."

The Wakandan nodded, turning back towards his jet. He hesitated, gaze traveling between the two aircraft before settling on the battered super soldiers. "Wait here," he said finally.

Bucky watched him climb back into the cockpit, disappearing from view. Steve let out a shaky breath, sending a cloud of white into the air. Logically, Bucky knew it was well below freezing, but he didn't feel the cold. He was probably going into shock, which was both expected under the circumstances, and a serious cause for concern.

He knew he should say something to Steve, but the sight of T'Challa tossing an unconscious Zemo out of the jet to land in a heap in the snow derailed that particular train of thought. T'Challa proceeded to drag Zemo over to the stolen Quinjet, waiving the two men over.

Steve said something about a lock, but Bucky wasn't paying attention. The tiny portion of his brain that was still functioning properly was fixated on what he knew Zemo still had on him somewhere, and what would happen if Bucky couldn’t get it back.

The jet’s entryway dropped open with a faint _hiss_ , steel ramp settling silently into the snow as Steve stepped back from the keypad. T’Challa grabbed hold of Zemo’s ankle and hauled him inside. Bumping his head against Steve’s jaw, Bucky mumbled, “Get the book.”

Frowning, Steve shot him an uncertain glance. He dug his fingers into Steve’s shoulder, panic starting to get the better of him. “Red notebook. ‘Couldn’t‘ve got in there without it.”

“T’Challa, does he have a notebook with him?” Steve asked as the Wakandan bent over Zemo to cuff him to the underside of the bench bolted to the wall. Satisfied Zemo wasn’t going anywhere, T’Challa searched through his heavy jacket.

For one long and terrifying moment, Bucky was convinced Zemo had left it somewhere inside the bunker. They’d have to back in for it. No one could have that kind of power over him ever again. He’d rather be dead than at the mercy of his goddamned programming, with anyone with a basic grasp of Cyrillic potentially at the controls.

When T’Challa stepped out of the jet with the book in one hand, Bucky sagged against Steve, relief taking his knees out from under him and threatening to take Steve out at the same time. Steve had to grab onto the doorframe to keep them upright, letting out a pained gasp.

“Come,” T’Challa said gently, ducking under Steve’s free arm. “Let's get both of you to safety.”

Leaving the Quinjet standing open – and exposing Zemo to the frigid air and blowing snow – the three men hobbled to the second jet. Even from the ground Bucky could tell that the gap behind the pilot's seat was small, clearly made for a go-bag and a few supplies, and not much else. Squeezing two full-grown men into the hidden space was going to be tough, especially with one of them rapidly losing consciousness.

T'Challa carefully took Bucky's good arm, holding him steady while Steve awkwardly climbed into the jet. Leaning over the side of the cockpit, Steve reached down and gestured for Bucky to take his hand. With Steve's fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist and forearm, Bucky instinctively tried to grab hold of the jet's wing to boost himself up.

Before he had the chance to lose his balance, T'Challa locked his arms around Bucky's lower legs, lifting him off the ground while Steve pulled. Somehow, the two men managed to get him into the jet without Bucky falling over the side. The last of the adrenaline was leaving his system, and Bucky barely registered that Steve had tucked them both into the cargo space until the jet's engines came to life with a hum that made the steel around him vibrate.

With the cockpit closed, the two soldiers were left in the dark and safely out of sight. When they were finally airborne, Steve let out a long, shaky breath that ruffled the hair on the back of Bucky's head. The pitch blackness made it hard to know for sure, but it felt like the only way he'd gotten them both to fit was to set Bucky between his legs. That meant both of them were on the floor with their knees jammed against the side wall, Bucky's back squished tight to Steve's chest.

"Well this is cozy," Bucky mumbled, letting his head fall to the side so Steve wouldn't have a face full of his blood-matted hair.

"This is almost as bad as that time we snuck onto that Hydra base in Bastogne in the back of that truck."

"Says the guy who was on the top of the pile."

"You drew the short straw, pal." Bucky could hear the weary grin in Steve’s voice, and it eased a little of the ever-present ache in his chest, guilt gnawing at him just a little less for a brief moment.

"Yeah, and it took me an hour to get the feeling back in my arm after we crawled out of there." Chuckling grimly, Bucky added, "At least that won't be a problem this time."

"That's not funny."

"'s a little funny." Specks of yellow light started to fill the cargo hold, but instead of illuminating the space, everything seemed to be getting darker. Bucky closed his eyes, and the lights got even brighter.

"Hey. Stay with me.”

Pain flared in his right hip, scattering a few of the specks. He grunted, trying to shift away from the unpleasant pressure, but it kept following him. Slowly, he realized Steve was digging his thumb into the bone hard enough to bruise. “Fuck off,” he grunted. 

"You gotta stay awake, pal. At least until we land."

“No promises,” he muttered. The lights were gone, but the lightheadedness that replaced them was not an improvement. Bucky was willing to bet his remaining arm that he was either going to puke or pass out long before they got to Africa.

"I'm sorry, Buck," Steve said softly, breaking the uneasy silence they’d lapsed into. "I’m sorry I let things get this bad. I should've tried harder to find you after DC. I should've done more to make sure you were safe."

"I didn't want to be found." 

"Why? You knew I was alive. You had to know I'd be looking for you. Why hide?"

Steve’s voice sounded strangely hoarse, the tone making Bucky’s already queasy insides lurch dangerously. He definitely had a concussion. "Because it wasn't just you I remembered." 

"I could've helped."

It wasn’t like Bucky had never thought about reaching out. Captain America wasn’t exactly a tough guy to find, and god knows there were nights when he would’ve given anything for a little bit of comfort. But the more puzzle pieces he managed to fit together, the more he realized that comfort wasn’t something he deserved. "I shouldn't be here. You should've left me for Stark to find."

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, tightening his hold on Bucky like he expected Stark to suddenly rip the side of the jet open and drag him away. "You'd spend the rest of your life in a cell."

Bucky shrugged his good shoulder, trying his damnedest to sound unfazed. He was too fucking tired to have this conversation right now. "Maybe that's where I belong. Where I can't hurt anyone else."

“You know damn well that’s bullshit,” Steve ground out, sounding genuinely pissed. “And what happened in Berlin is never going to happen again. We’re gonna figure this out, Buck. ‘Cause I… I’m not losing you again. I can’t.”

Clumsily, Bucky’s fingers found the hand Steve had fisted in the fabric of his blood-soaked jacket and gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. It was a little hard to focus on much of anything over the loud rushing sound in his ears.

And then he blacked out.

~ ~ ~

Somehow, Bucky managed to avoid throwing up until they were on solid ground. Several pairs of unfamiliar hands had a hold of him, keeping him on his feet while he heaved the contents of his stomach onto the tarmac – which seemed to be mostly blood.

“Well that’s not good,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“No, it is not,” T’Challa replied grimly. Bucky could just make out the Wakandan’s boots in his peripheral, and Steve’s beside them.

“On the stretcher,” commanded a female voice. “You too. That is a brand new suit you are bleeding all over.”

“Sorry, Miss,” Steve groaned.

T’Challa said something to the woman – girl? – in his own language, tone somewhere between scolding and amused. As she responded, Bucky felt gentle fingers pressing against his jaw, tilting his head up. Definitely girl. She couldn’t be more than sixteen, but there was an air of confidence and authority about her that made it clear that she was the one in charge here.

“You are a mess, White Boy,” she sighed, turning her attention from his face to his mangled stump. Bucky frowned at it, noticing for the first time that there was a makeshift bandage covering it. He had no memory of either Steve or T’Challa wrapping gauze around the exposed tissue and wires, but the dried blood staining the cotton an ugly rust color told him it had been there a while. “My brother would not tell me what kind of trouble the two of you have gotten yourselves into, but it must be bad if he brought you here.”

Bucky mustered up the energy to turn his head in Steve’s direction. He was being propped up by T’Challa while a pair of women in was he assumed was medical garb steered a floating stretcher towards the two men. Steve looked like he wanted to object, but T’Challa shook his head, a half-smile spreading across his lips. “I would do as Shuri says if I were you, Captain.”

A second stretcher was hovering in front of Bucky. The girl he figured must be Shuri cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to put up a fight. “Do I look like I can walk?” he asked dryly.

“I like this one,” said Shuri, taking a step back to let the guards who were still hanging onto him help him lie down on the padded surface. Shutting his eyes to block out the glare of the sun, Bucky tried to take stock of his injuries. A task that would’ve been a lot easier if every last inch of his body wasn’t throbbing. Waking up in that goddamned ravine had been less painful than this.

He tuned out the flurry of activity around him, more worried about keeping Steve in his line of sight than with anything that was happening to him.

“Don’t bother,” Steve said to the tech setting up an IV beside him. “None of that stuff works on me.”

“Me either,” said Bucky.

“You still need blood,” replied the tech who had been about to do the same for him. She disappeared into another part of what Bucky could only guess was some kind of underground lab – he’d been in enough top-secret facilities to shrug off the distinctly cave-like look of the place – while yet another tech started cutting his clothes off of him.

“Hey. I liked that jacket,” he protested weakly. Peering past the woman with the scissors, he could see Steve sitting up on his stretcher, handing his helmet and gloves to one woman while another helped him ease out of his uniform.

Any thought he had of giving Steve shit for getting to keep his clothes intact left him when Steve got his undershirt off. His entire torso was covered in black and purple bruising, and a fist-sized patch of skin at the base of his sternum was raw and blistered. Steve caught Bucky’s eye and gave him an all too familiar look. _Don’t worry about me, Buck. It’ll heal._

Shuri peeling the bandages off of his metal stump was an unwelcome reminder that Bucky wasn’t doing much better. The medical team had switched from English back to Wakandan, with Shuri giving instructions to the half-dozen women bustling around the two stretchers. The rushing sound was back, and Bucky let it usher him back into semi-consciousness.

The next few hours went a lot like the bulk of the flight from Siberia had gone, with Bucky drifting in and out of awareness. It was like every time he blinked, a random chunk of time would vanish. A neat row of stitches would suddenly be in a place that a second ago was nothing but blood. The hands disinfecting the scrapes on his leg were suddenly holding him down while molten pain burned through what was left of the flesh of his left arm.

At some point, Steve had taken over restraining him despite the fact that he looked ready to collapse. And then Shuri was leaning over him with a smile on her face. “I saved as much of the tissue and nerves as I could. It may take me some time to develop a replacement, but I will have you back in one piece soon, White Boy.”

“Thank you,” said Steve, easing Bucky into a sitting position. “After everything that happened… you didn’t have to do this.”

Shuri shrugged, not meeting Steve’s eyes. “I am happy for the distraction your presence here provides. And I am always pleased to have a new project.”

“And I am pleased to for once not be the focus of one of her projects,” T’Challa added, making his way across the lab towards them with a bundle of fabric tucked under one arm. Shuri gave him a dirty look and headed off in the opposite direction, muttering to herself in Wakandan. T’Challa shook his head fondly as she stomped up the stairs that stood in the center of the room. “We have much to discuss, but that can wait until you’ve both gotten some proper rest. Come with me.”

By some miracle, both Bucky and Steve managed to get themselves dressed in tank tops, scrub pants, and slippers, and follow T’Challa out of the lab and into an elevator on their own steam.

“I apologize that I cannot offer you more comfortable accommodations, but until the truth of my father’s death can be shared with our people, it is best that as few as possible know that you are here,” T’Challa explained, leading them down a long hallway a couple of floors above the lab.

“You’ve already done more than enough,” Steve replied.

Stopping in front of a nondescript door near the end of the hall, T’Challa swung it inwards and gestured for the super soldiers to step inside. The room held a pair of twin beds set against opposite walls, a pair of small end tables, and nothing else. “Sleep well. We will speak once you have had some time to heal.”

As soon as T’Challa left, Steve kicked off his thin slippers and stumbled over to one of the beds. Shoving the covers back, he all but fell onto the mattress. It seemed to take whatever energy he had left just to manage that much, leaving him sprawled on his back on an angle with one leg under the blankets.

Bucky was more than happy to follow suit. Logically he’d always known that his conditioning and enhancements would only let him push past his human limitations for so long, but this was the first time he’d actually hit that breaking point. He’d been running on nothing but adrenaline for days, and it had burned him out completely.

That was the only possible explanation for why instead of heading for the empty bed after switching off the lights, Bucky instead found himself crawling in next to Steve. Lost in a haze of agony and exhaustion, instinct took over. Apparently, his instincts were under the impression that he was still in the cramped quarters he’d shared with the Commandos a lifetime ago. Back then, it was second nature to curl up back to back with Steve on a thin bedroll on the floor to keep from freezing inside their flimsy canvas shelter.

It was an easy mistake to make, given how often he’d been shot at since he found Steve standing in his Romanian apartment.

How Steve felt about this sleeping arrangement would be tomorrow’s problem, because now that he was horizontal, there was no way in hell he was getting up again. The combination of fatigue and blood loss had him chilled to the bone, leaving him shivering miserably as he lay with his back to Steve, blankets clutched tightly in his trembling fingers.

The soft rustle of fabric was the only warning he got before Steve’s arm draped itself across his side. More than a little confused by the contact, Bucky whispered his presumably out of it friend’s name cautiously. “Steve?”

“You’re shakin’ the bed,” Steve mumbled, dragging Bucky towards him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled back, trying to hold himself as still as possible while Steve got settled. It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable arrangement, with Steve’s knee digging into the back of Bucky’s thigh directly below a very tender bruise and his ribs less than appreciative of the dead weight of Steve’s arm pressing down on them. But until now he’d forgot why bunking down next to Captain America was always the best way to manage at least some sleep on even the shittiest nights. The guy threw off heat like a radiator.

Grabbing Steve’s wrist, Bucky moved his arm to a slightly less achy spot and let himself relax a bit, gratefully soaking up the sudden warmth. He could live with awkward but cozy if it meant a few hours of rest. Not like they’d never done this before. Although, being the little spoon was going to take some getting used to.

It was dark when Bucky opened his eyes again. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the fact that he didn’t feel like he’d been hit by a speeding train told him it was at least a day later. He healed fast, but not that fast. His muscles were stiff and sore, probably from lying in the same position for god knows how long, and his metal shoulder ached. Still groggy, he blinked a few times, taking stock of his surroundings.

It was too dark to make out anything but vague shapes, and the only sound in the room was Steve’s quiet, uneven breathing. There was a small hitch in each inhale, like even unconscious he was in too much pain for his lungs to work right. It wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the wet wheeze Bucky had spent too many winter nights listening to when they were young, but it bothered him all the same. Mostly because he knew that it was his fault that Steve was in rough shape.

Bucky sighed wearily. What he should’ve done was get up and climb into his own bed. He didn’t have the excuse of being disoriented and dead on his feet anymore. But he didn’t. This was the first time in decades he’d slept soundly, and that alone was worth the awkwardness of staying tucked in next to Steve like a kid trying to hide from a bad dream in his brother’s bed.

Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was wake Steve up. Bad as things had been for Bucky since the UN bombing, they’d been absolute hell for Steve. On the run and doing his best to lay low, Bucky had nothing to lose but his freedom, which wasn’t worth as much to him as it used to be. Before his memories came back. But Steve…

Protecting him had cost Steve everything.

If he hadn’t been such a coward, he could’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble. More than once he’d seriously considered killing himself, convinced it was the only way to quiet the ghosts in his head. There was too much innocent blood on his hands, too much pain and devastation left in his wake for him to ever make peace with his past. A bullet could fix all of that.

For better or worse, he’d managed to keep hanging on. Not all of his memories were bad ones. There was Steve, obviously. Their childhood in Brooklyn. His parents and siblings, and the comfortable life he had with them growing up. Even the war held it’s share of great times thanks to the Howling Commandos and just enough downtime to enjoy being young and reckless and a world away from home.

And then there was Natalia. She’d come to him fresh from the Red Room and managed to surprise him with how much personality she’d managed to hang on to despite spending more than half her life being broken down and brutalized by the KGB. His handlers told him that she was the very best the program had to offer, and they had no idea how right they were.

Natalia was what a younger Bucky would’ve called a hellcat. She’d mastered every skill her own handlers had expected her to pick up and learned to use her small stature and soft features to her advantage. Hydra thought pairing their two most lethal weapons together would make them unstoppable. The Black Widow was single-minded and loyal to Mother Russia, and The Asset was a machine that existed to do Hydra’s bidding. It was a perfect plan.

Except both Hydra and the KGB had vastly overestimated the hold they had on their prized assassins. Both Natalia and The Asset were still very human underneath all of their programming, and entirely capable of falling in love. Even when Bucky didn’t know his own name, he knew how he felt about Natalia. He knew that it was real.

There had been times in the past where he’d managed to fight his way back to the surface just enough to convince himself to run. Bucky had even made it all the way back to New York in the early seventies, letting some shadow of a memory lead him halfway across the country instead of back to the designated rendezvous point. Hydra found him every time, but he kept trying.

Then they caught him with Natalia during a mission. 

Half the reason he’d been so terrified when Steve recognized him in DC and tried to get through to him was the torture Hydra put him through as punishment for loving Natalia. Emotions were dangerous, for him and for the people who triggered them.

Even though he didn’t remember Natalia once his handlers were done with him, he never tried to run again. Whatever piece of Bucky Barnes was still hanging on somewhere in The Asset’s mind just… gave up. Buried itself so deep that even seeing her again through the scope of his rifle after being told she’d been executed didn’t stir even a trace of feeling in him. Neither did the sight of her smirking up at him from below the causeway.

But Steve was supposed to be dead. Zola had shown him the papers and newsreels before they’d wiped him the first time, hoping to break him with the knowledge that this time, no one was coming for him. And it worked. So seeing his best pal alive and well and _young_ had been more than enough to shake something loose. Pierce had made him pay for the resulting moment of weakness, but Bucky was awake and refused to let Hydra shut him up again.

So The Asset saved Steve from the Potomac and disappeared. Bit by bit, his Winter Soldier programming started to unravel. It had been hell having to relive the last seventy years over again, but even the nightmares were better than going back under.

Except, he was going to have to go back under. Even with the notebook in his possession, there was so much he still didn’t know about what Hydra had put in his head. Until he could know for sure that he wasn’t at the mercy of some hidden trigger or a handful of code words, Bucky had to stay on ice.

He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he hurt anyone else.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I'm working on the next installment right now! It'll be another multi-chapter story, so bear with me.


End file.
